Bad Reputation Page 2

“Thanks.”

  “I also know you don’t want to write the sequel since it’ll be a guaranteed howling trash fire.”

  Connor rubbed his eyes, blinking into the bright lights. “What’s this conversation about again?”

  “I can help you.”

  “How?”

  Russell flagged a server, who brought a glass of water. Russell handed it over. “Maybe you’re too drunk to remember this but I’m Russell Cohan. I can do anything.”

  “I won’t argue that,” Connor said, gazing across the room at Willa and her friend, who eyed him while cozying up together on a single chair. The hems of their already short dresses were riding up in a way that made Connor tug on his lower lip. God, he wanted this conversation to be done already.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” Russell chuckled. “I can get you out of your contract with the studio, Connor. You know that’s impossible but I can nix that sequel for you if you want me to.”

  Say whaaat? Connor’s bleary eyes turned back to Russell. The mere suggestion of being contract-free was getting him hard. Or maybe it was a combination of things. “Why would you do that for me?” he asked.

  “Because you would do something for me in return.”

  “Obviously, but what’s that?”

  Russell flashed those impossibly white veneers again before laying down the terms of his offer. Connor listened more carefully than he thought he could for someone who was essentially trashed.

  “Think it over a bit and call me when you’re ready to accept,” Russell said, returning Connor’s phone and handing over his own card along with it. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

  Connor plucked the phone and card from Russell’s hand. “Thanks.”

  “Talk to you soon.”

  As Russell walked off, Connor watched the girls return to him, hand-in-hand with more mischief in their eyes than before. He ran his thumb over the embossed letters of the heavy business card before slipping it into his pocket, a grin spreading his lips as he let both girls follow him into the lobby.

  Forget the car. It had just become a night for champagne and room service.

  3

  As Kensie tossed various short, white options out from her massive walk-in, Peyton read the latest articles from her Google News search. She wrinkled her nose.

  Initially, she had been optimistic about her Uncle Russell’s plan to jumpstart Kensie’s acting career. It was simple: since Kensie had a born instinct to defy her father, he would hire an industry veteran whom she respected to instead show her the ropes. She would heed that veteran’s advice and in return, would be cast in that veteran’s movie. Ideally, said veteran would be a screenwriter who was unaccustomed to being given much creative freedom by a studio – someone who was talented and respected, but had been screwed enough to accept Russell’s suspicious contract with the single term: that Kensie be mentored and written an honorable starring role.

  It was honestly a fair shake though. Russell was prepared to provide an absolutely staggering budget for his daughter’s acting debut and as unstable as she was, mentoring Kensie didn’t seem like the worst thing for a writer to do in exchange for say, eighty million dollars with which to fund your dream script. Even Peyton was ecstatic about the opportunity. Everyone involved would be happy and for once, Kensie might find fulfillment somewhere besides her romantic life. Which would mean that she might stop needing Peyton to save her from nightly dating debacles.

  It all sounded so promising.

  But then Kensie chose Connor Schaffer from the list of writers.

  And for obvious reasons. He was hot. Undeniably so. He was the youngest of Russell’s picks and even Peyton could see from Google Images that he was the kind of tall, built and handsome that rendered even the boldest girls speechless. Maybe it was that little glint in his eye. It was the look of someone who had just been told your most mortifying secret right as you were approaching. Peyton theorized that the dickish perma-smug was a result of being extraordinarily smart. She’d read somewhere that Connor had graduated USC early and written his first script for a major network by the age of twenty. And of course, his career had only ballooned since. It was probably why he looked like a superior asshole, even in pictures.

  This guy is going to be Kensie’s Kryptonite, Peyton had lamented with mild panic. And that was before further Googling, which provided much more information with which to be completely dubious about Connor Schaffer.

  From what she gathered, he wasn’t one of Hollywood’s nice guys. Floating around were stories about him refusing autographs, ignoring the people back home and getting nearly arrested in January for starting a bar brawl. Worse was the way he went through women. He dated many and dumped them cruelly. One rising starlet claimed that Connor ended their two-month romance via text, and that he was spotted with another woman four hours later. Another claimed that when she was thirty minutes late to his booty call, she arrived at his condo to find him already in the throes with another girl.

  So… perfect. He was the exact kind of rich, womanizing, Hollywood bad boy whom Kensie constantly dreamt about taming. But Connor was worse than her usual picks because he somehow managed to have Russell Cohan’s elusive approval. He was someone whom Russell actually wanted in Kensie’s life and there were few people besides Peyton whom he actually trusted his youngest daughter to be around.

  “You!” Kensie chucked a Valentino romper at Peyton. “Stop looking at those articles. You’re the one who says they’re mean and I shouldn’t listen to them.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “So why are you reading them instead of helping me choose the sexiest outfit possible?” Kensie pouted, standing in the pile of white dresses she’d made. They were in her bedroom at Russell’s three-acre estate in East Hampton, where his famous Memorial Day barbecue was underway. Already milling in the sprawling yard were hordes of the beautiful, rich and famous.

  Soon enough, Connor Schaffer was to be among them.

  Apparently, after twelve hours of consideration, he’d accepted Russell’s offer – but under his own term: that he first get to meet Kensie. It was fair enough. Who would sign an agreement to mentor someone and write a role for her without first assessing her talent? Or, since it was Connor Schaffer, assessing his desire to sleep with her?

  That was at least Peyton’s assumption. Shutting Kensie’s laptop, she sighed. “I just want to know everything I can, Kenz.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going nuts choosing a dress to meet a guy who I have a feeling you’ve already made the decision to fall in love with. And from what I’ve gathered from multiple sources, he’s kind of a dick.”

  “I like dicks.”

  “I know you do.”

  Kensie shot a hair tie at Peyton. “Shut. I didn’t mean it like that.” She paused. “Though I could for Connor Schaffer.”

  “Kensie, I’m pretty sure he’s made more women cry than he’s ever made smile. It’s probably like, a five hunder-to-one ratio.”

  “But you don’t know that for sure. He might just be confident ‘cause sometimes, confident guys come off as dicks. They can’t even help it. I mean I Googled him too, you know, and honestly, what do people have on him? He dumps women the second he’s tired of them, and he’s sometimes really blunt in interviews. So? That’s just the sign of an honest guy and isn’t it time that I dated an honest guy?”

  Peyton was silent. Kensie was in Defend-the-Boy mode and it was hard to get her out of it once she was in. Plus, her voice was starting to crack, which meant she was getting emotional. Biting her tongue, Peyton picked and chose her next words carefully. After The Incident, she needed to tread lightly. The last thing she wanted was to trigger memories of the boy who’d made her cousin disappear for a month.

  Especially since most of it was her fault.

  “Listen,” Peyton started slowly. “I think this is a great opportunity for you because you’ve wanted this forever.” She dared to crack a smile. “And the few pla
ys you didn’t flake out on at NYU – ”

  “Hey!”

  “ – you were incredible in. Which is why I feel like you should go into this Connor thing with just your career in mind. You’re talented and I know you don’t want to distract yourself from making your dream come true. Especially not with a guy that people call a…” Peyton squinted at her laptop screen. “A ‘womanizing douchelord.’”

  Kensie considered it for a couple seconds and then burst into giggles. “I know.” She bunny hopped to where Peyton lie on her bed and bent over, kissing the tip of her nose. “Booski. You’re so cute when you look out for me.”

  “Thanks,” Peyton said dryly.

  “Seriously. I appreciate it a lot. I don’t think me or Daddy tell you that enough.”

  “Well, thank you for real then.”

  “Love me?”

  Peyton rolled her eyes. “Girl, you know I do.”

  “Good.” Kensie stood upright again, smiling with content. “Because I still plan on having lots of sex with Connor Schaffer, so get up and help me pick a dress before I go out there in my undies.”

  Once she’d sent Kensie off in a lace overlay mini, Peyton sat on the floor next to Kensie’s pile of castoffs, looking for a dress to borrow for the party. Her own room was down the hall but she didn’t feel like going there. It had been assigned to her when she was eighteen – a few years after she’d started living with the Cohans – but the space still didn’t feel like home. She didn’t have much clothes in there and when they were in the Hamptons together, Kensie and Peyton generally wound up talking themselves to exhaustion and passing out somewhere in the house together – generally the terrace, with a bottle of wine, or in Kensie’s room, with a bottle of wine.

  The case wasn’t too different than how things were at their West Village condo. The place was a three-bedroom stunner on the sixteenth floor of a Perry Street high rise, and it was under constant renovation. Russell had purchased it for Kensie upon her acceptance to NYU and the first thing he’d done was hire a team to build her dream bedroom. In the years since, he’d renovated every other room, shuffling Peyton from a bedroom to the office, back to the bedroom and then a new one. Because of the constant change, she’d yet to really develop her own space there, so more often than not, she hung out on the terrace or in the great room.

  But she wasn’t complaining. Without the Cohans, Peyton had no idea where she would be. Various places, probably. Tuscaloosa first, then Dallas or Washington or Oakland – basically wherever her mother had decided to follow a guy for the year. Wherever it was, Peyton probably wouldn’t have finished high school on time, if at all. She definitely wouldn’t have gone to college, so no matter what the circumstances of her life with the Cohans, she had to always remember one thing: To always be grateful.

  And being grateful meant babysitting Kensie, being at Russell’s beck and call, and wearing all white for his all-white parties – even if that dress code seemed kind of like a dated trend.

  After locating Kensie’s loosest dress – a gauzy piece with an asymmetrical hem above the knee – Peyton whipped off her T-shirt and shorts to pull it on, even winding her hair into a neat topknot to look more polished. Instead of sandals, she went for Kensie’s closed-toed platform espadrilles. They covered all bases since her home pedicure was chipped and there was nothing Russell Cohan hated more than “in-between nails.” They had to be either polished or bare. In addition, he required the girls to wear heels at his parties, preferably between three and four inches. Since Peyton’s walk in heels was reminiscent of the Thriller dance, she opted for platforms because she generally tripped less on those than in stilettos.

  “Am I good?” Peyton mouthed to Russell upon spotting her uncle on the lawn, in the midst of introducing Kensie to a huge group of people. Peyton slowed her walk to let Russell eye her and give a brief thumbs up before returning to his conversation.

  That was generally how these parties always started. Peyton got her approval from Uncle Russell and then wandered around, chatting with various people and nursing a single flute of Veuve till Kensie was done with her rounds. Then, Peyton made herself available to her cousin, whether it be for actual company or saving her from conversations with unwanted suitors. By evening, around 8PM, Russell would come and check with Peyton on how many drinks Kensie had consumed and would ask if she needed to be cut off. This step of the process was introduced after their Fourth of July barbecue five years ago, when Kensie got drunk on champagne, cannonballed into the pool wearing Prada and then threw up in the water. Since Russell considered the night his “all-time greatest embarrassment,” Peyton was tasked with the responsibility of seeing that it never happen again.

  But today, since Kensie was to meet Connor, Peyton had a feeling that her babysitting duties would be delayed if not canceled altogether. So if there was a bright side to Kensie meeting Connor Schaffer, it was the fact that Russell would be watching his daughter for the night. It gave Peyton all the time in the world to finally do her own thing, like talk to Russell’s friend, Elaine, who owned that amazing art gallery in Chelsea. Or maybe Drew, that gorgeous chef who always seemed to find her at these parties.

  Or maybe not.

  KENSIE: Peytonnn. I think I’m too scared to meet Connor actually

  KENSIE: I feel like he’s going to think I’m stupid

  KENSIE: I’m sorry I’m being annoying :(

  Peyton sighed as Kensie’s nervous texts buzzed in by the second. Alright. Let’s do this. Talking Kensie down from her nerves generally involved making her laugh in any way, which Peyton was fairly decent at, so downing the last of her champagne, she headed for the only place where she could respond in private – the pool. Since the infamous Prada cannonball, the waterside infinity had remained a spot that people generally avoided at Russell’s parties, which was perfect. Peyton usually escaped to the fenced hideaway after one too many guests asked what she was “doing with herself these days.” This year, she’d just be there a little earlier than usual.

  “Girl, why are you calling? Aren’t you about to meet Connor?” Peyton answered her phone in a hushed voice when it rang.

  “Yes, but Daddy won’t stop talking about how smart he is and how I better not say anything stupid and I’m nervous and I need a drink!”

  Plopping down on a poolside chaise, Peyton touched between her eyebrows. “You don’t need a drink, Kenz. And you’re not going to say anything stupid.”

  “Yes, I am! Any chance you can go to the bar and make me a special water?”

  “No!” A special water required asking the bartender to empty half a Perrier, fill it with Grey Goose and then memorize Kensie’s face so that he could give her the tampered bottle when she came with Russell to ask for some “club soda.”

  “Please, Peyton! I feel like Daddy’s gonna make me so nervous that I say something idiotic and ruin this whole thing.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Kensie,” Peyton insisted. “And even if it does, Connor seems like the kind of big, sexist dick who prefers his women stupid,” she said brightly. Kensie snorted. That was a start. “Seriously girl. You have nothing to worry about. This whole thing’s basically arranged, anyway. Connor’s just here to look at you and make sure there’s nothing, you know, gravely wrong with your face.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like a third nostril, Kenz. The guy’s a shallow asshat, he doesn’t care about whether or not you can form a coherent sentence, he just wants to know that you’re as pretty in real life as you are in pictures. Or that you haven’t gained weight recently.”

  Kensie fell quiet. The silence continued for a couple seconds but then her giggle finally bubbled from the other end. “That’s horrible.”

  “I know. But you’re laughing. Now get off the phone and go talk to that douche. You’re gonna do great.”

  “Fine. Love you.”

  Once she hung up, Peyton tossed her phone onto the adjacent chair and leaned back in her seat. Heaving a sigh, she c
losed her eyes. Crisis averted just in time. Having downed her champagne on an empty stomach, Peyton could feel herself getting tipsy. She’d actually heard herself slur her last few words on the phone, which was really no surprise. Her alcohol tolerance pretty much nosedived by the year, mostly because she rarely ever drank for fear of compromising her Kensie-saving skills. The last time she’d gotten flat-out drunk was junior year of college, at her then-boyfriend’s birthday party. Too busy dancing, she’d missed four calls from Russell, who needed help finding Kensie since she was set to meet an agent the next morning. Of course, she wound up missing that meeting and the next morning, a hungover Peyton spent an hour getting chewed out by Russell, who threatened to get her kicked out of school.

  So three years. It had been three years since Peyton had consumed more than three drinks.

  Maybe today I’ll drink, she thought wistfully. And flirt with a guy. A hot one. It did feel like ages since Peyton had so much as talked to a guy she found attractive. There had been none to speak of at school and the bars that Hailey chose were generally populated by hipsters. It was fine but after repeated exposure to low-cut tank tops and slip-on sneakers, Peyton was kind of craving the company of a guy who wore just a fitted T-shirt and jeans – whose muscle she could ogle through the plain white cotton of his shirt.

  And just as she began to entertain the thought, a voice sounded above her.

  “Arranged marriage?”

  Peyton’s eyes shot open with surprise. She blinked upon seeing the pool boy towering above her, grinning under the bill of his Crystal Pool Cleaners cap. Ho-ly shit, we’ve got a winner. Perfect, carved jaw. Just the right amount of stubble. Plus, his frame was so tall and broad that he cast an actual shadow over Peyton. She couldn’t help but stare. That body. She could climb it if he let her.

  “And… where’d you come from?” she finally managed to ask.

  “I was just in the shed getting this,” he said, holding up his pool net in a way that caused the most delicious flex of the bicep. Peyton tried to look unaffected. “And I overheard you talking about what sounded like an arranged marriage,” he laughed.